Before I can find a response, he’s already guiding me toward the building, his hand firm at my lower back, steering me with quiet inevitability. There’s no rush in him. No hesitation. Just purpose.
The stairwell echoes with our footsteps as we climb. Every step tightens the space between us, the awareness. By the time we stop in front of my door, my pulse is racing for reasons that have nothing to do with the earlier attack.
Apartment 9.
I turn to face him, keys clenched in my hand. “You really don’t need to,”
He steps closer.
Not touching. Not yet. Just close enough that the air between us feels stretched thin, electric. His gaze drops, slow, deliberate, to my mouth. Lingers. Then lifts back to my eyes.
One hand rises, fingers gliding along my arm, careful of my injured hand, tracing warmth into my skin. His other hand braces against the door beside my head, caging me in without actually trapping me.
My breath stutters.
For a heartbeat, I’m certain he’s going to kiss me.
The thought is terrifying.
The thought is inevitable.
His face lowers, close enough that I can feel his breath against my cheek, he smells like danger wrapped in restraint.
“Go inside,” he murmurs, voice low, intimate.
I don’t move.
His gaze flicks to my lips again, dark and unreadable, as if he’s weighing a choice he’s already made not to take. Slowly, painfully slowly, he pulls back just enough to break the moment without shattering it.
“Go inside,” he says again.
This time, there’s no softness in it. No room for interpretation.
I swallow, fingers tightening around my keys as I turn toward the door. The lock clicks under my trembling hand, the sound far too loud in the quiet hallway. I push the door open and take a step inside,
And suddenly, his arm wraps around my waist.
I gasp as he pulls me back toward him, the movement swift and controlled, my back pressing into his chest. He pulls me close, close enough that I can feel the steady rise and fall of his breathing, the warmth of him seeping into my skin.
His hand slides from my waist to my side, firm, anchoring me there.
“Khai,” I breathe.
Heleans in, his mouth brushing close to my ear, his voice dropping to a murmur meant only for me.
“Sweet dreams, Little Heaven,” he whispers.
The words send a shiver straight through me.
“Wrap that hand,” he adds quietly, like it matters. LikeImatter.
Then he lets go.
Just like that.
The space he leaves behind feels cavernous as I stumble back into my apartment, my heart racing. I turn quickly, locking the door with a sharp click, my forehead resting against the cool wood as I try to steady my breathing.
On the other side, I hear his footsteps.
